I love to fly.  That is, I love the actual flying part of air travel.  I am not crazy about self-serve check-in kiosks, airport security, or boarding periods where passengers seem to show the worst of human nature and try to claim as much overhead storage space as possible.

Once I am up in the air, looking out the window, marveling at how 180 souls are skimming a layer of clouds in a glorified metal tube, I can’t help but be wowed.

I love having this vantage point for looking at the world. It makes me feel small and significant at the same time. I am just a single pair of eyes looking at the whole of things from the heavens.

Before ascending to cruising level, during take-offs when I am very aware of the unnatural aspect of traversing the sky in a metal tube, and even when landing, when the abstract patchwork quilt of farms, blocks of houses, or highway clover leafs become concrete and clearly recognizable, I will find myself praying for safety. When I experience pockets of turbulence, too, I will shut my eyes and start talking to God.

When John and I flew out to New York Saturday, I had yet another flying experience. When we hit some bumpy air, I closed my eyes and listened to the coded series of ring tones airlines use for cockpit personnel to communicate with their flight crew. Then the captain’s or co-pilot’s voice came on over the loudspeaker, a strong male voice with a slight southern accent. In his voice, I heard a sort of seriousness without panic as safety instructions were given.

“…At this time, we ask that you please keep your seat belts on. It is advisable that you do not use the lavatory now. And please, do not attempt to apply lipstick…”

Wait a minute, I thought to myself. Did I just hear what I think I heard?  I started laughing. My belly started to move in and out reflexively. My shallow breathing got deeper and the tension in my hands melted. I opened my eyes and stopped praying. I looked around the cabin. Some passengers, probably seasoned travelers, did not look up from their laptops or shake their heads free from their IPhone ear buds, but I caught smiles on many of the faces around me.

Do not attempt to apply lipstick…That comment was rich. Later in the flight, as we started our descent into LaGuardia, the member of the cockpit comedy crew made a few other remarks.

“We realize that you have your choice of carriers when booking air travel. Since we want you to give us the business, we hope you don’t mind us taking you for a ride.”

Can I get a drum roll, please? What schtick!

And after we landed, when we were taxiing up to our gate and passengers began the ritual of rushing into the aisles despite not being able to get on their way any faster, the disembodied voice, sounding almost like a Sunday School preacher, came on the loudspeaker again with “All rise.”

These bits of humor put me in a good mood that lasted for hours. I had to ask myself why.

There is something wonderful about hearing a message delivered in a manner that feels incongruous to the situation. Comedians like Steven Wright always crack me up because of their deadpan delivery. The fact that the person making the joke is someone I wouldn’t expect to make a joke also amplifies my delight.  (Humor coming from a commercial airline pilot? Really!)

I think, though, I was most affected by the touch of humor during the minute of air turbulence. When I looked at myself and confronted my fears over safety and loss of control, I knew that half of the other passengers probably stopped praying and started laughing at the same moment I did.

A little levity at 27,000 feet in the air (or 2700 feet from baggage claim) is no small thing.